


Precipitation

by unorthodoxCreativity



Category: Hanna Is Not A Boy's Name
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-03
Updated: 2013-08-03
Packaged: 2017-12-22 06:12:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,872
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/909853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unorthodoxCreativity/pseuds/unorthodoxCreativity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lamont feels listless and depressed, and some part of him knows there’s really only one way to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Precipitation

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on Livejournal Jul. 6th, 2010.
> 
> Written past midnight due to RP blueballing I had to endure all day (and then didn’t get because RP Buddy felt depressed and I made her to go bed). It’s odd and kind of pathetic to realize how much I depend on stuff like that as an outlet. 
> 
> Because this was after a day’s worth of stir-crazy, the verbiage got kind of... purple. If I messed up my present tense in any places, I’m sorry. It was late and it’s been a while since I’ve written in anything other than past tense. At least it’s a look into Lamont’s thinking, right?

There is every reason for him to be pleased and content tonight, but somehow, Lamont isn’t. Today is his day off, Friday: the day he can do whatever he pleases and not have to deal with any number of odd clients who may or may not be dangerous. Nevertheless, even with that calm satisfaction of the hours of nothing ahead of him, he’d fidgeted, hemmed and hawed around his apartment feeling like there was something he desperately needed to do, but not for the life of him able to figure out what it was. He read the entirety of a book he’d been meaning to look over, he watched countless hours of mind-numbing television, he’d even organized and reorganized his closet according to style, color, season – all to no avail.  
  
It’s what brings him where he is now, hunched over the steering wheel of his car, peering out through the battering rain that, of course, decided its night was tonight just as Lamont was setting out. His original plan of bar hopping would be miserable now; he isn’t sure what else do to, but he isn’t about to turn back after going to all the hassle of getting dressed up in nice clothes and psyching himself up (poorly) for a night on the town.  
  
The windshield wipers surge furiously across his vision, clearing it for mere seconds before the deluge covers it again. Lamont’s knuckles are tight and pale on the wheel, and it’s good that he’s navigating subconsciously, because he really would not be able to find his way anywhere otherwise.  
  
It’s a surprise where he finds himself then, the rain still sheeting down in a storm that contests the Biblical Flood. It’s outside a dingy, hidden away apartment complex, abandoned for years if not for the equally as dingy man living in the middle one. Lamont sighs to himself and wonders why, exactly, some part of him thought seeing Worth would be a good idea tonight – he almost turns around, drives back home – but there is some sort of nagging in his chest and he figures that Worth’s company is better than no company.  
  
The minute he steps outside of his car, he realizes he’s made a horrible mistake. There’s really nothing he can do about it now but sprint through the frigid water to the door and pound on it with a fist, hoping Worth isn’t drunk or high or asleep or in some other condition that would prevent him from letting him in.  
  
He’s not. The door opens a second later, and Lamont loses his balance, cursing as he lurches into the room. Worth just makes a sound of irritation and slams the door behind him, not seeming to notice or car that Lamont is dripping all over the floor like a wet sheepdog.  
  
“Whatcher doin’ out here, Mont? S’fuckin’ rainin’ God’s piss out there!”   
  
If Lamont had expected any sort of pleasant greeting, he really should have known better. Still, the hint of concern in the obscenity is enough to pull the corner of his mouth up. He pushes a hand over his hair in a vain attempt to dry it, only succeeding in pressing more freezing water down his back. He shivers, removing his hand gingerly. Better not try that again.  
  
“Dunno,” Lamont finally answers, taking a glance around. Still a total pigsty, but he shouldn’t expect anything different. He’s seen the stacks of boxes and debris so many times they hold no interest, so he turns his gaze instead to the man he’d come to see.  
  
Worth is wearing the white fur coat that still manages to stay mostly clean, much to Lamont’s confusion. The collar is fluffed up around his neck like a vulture’s plumes, stating dominance or perhaps just seeking comfort. The man’s hands are in his pockets, and Lamont can tell he’s been up to something nefarious again by the way he can’t seem to hold eye contact.  
  
“Luce,” Lamont scolds, cutting right to the chase, “What is it? Either you’re drugged again or you’re cutting, and I thought we agreed that you were stopping both.”  
  
Worth makes an irritated noise deep in the back of his throat and shoots a glare at Lamont. “I didn’t agree on nothin’. An’ ya can’t come in here’n th’middle of th’night and think ya c’n jus’ criticise everythin’ I do. Yer not my mummy.”  
  
He sighs, running a hand through his hair again. The stagnant air is doing nothing to dry his hair or his clothes, and the cold is seeping deep into his bones. Worth’s attitude isn’t helping, either. Why was it he had to come in here again? Why couldn’t he have just said fuck it and gone back to his nice warm bed?  
  
...Because he wouldn’t have been able to sleep even if he had. He knows this, somehow, but it doesn’t help him find any justification in the moment.   
  
“I’m not going to argue with you,” he mutters, “but could you please find me something to dry off with? Or at least a change of clothes?”  
  
  
“Puss,” Worth quips, grinning at him, but he does as he’s asked, coming back a moment later with a stained and threadbare towel that might have once been green and an equally worse-for-wear button up shirt still pretending to be white.  
  
“Don’t have pants that’ll fit ya, so all’s ya get’s this shirt. Lose some weight, Fatty.”  
  
“Maybe you should gain some, Toothpick.” Even despite the traded insults, Lamont takes the offered items gratefully, immediately taking the towel to his hair. He tries not to think of where it’s been or how dirty it is. He can get a shower when he gets home.   
  
“Feh,” is all that the scrawny man has to respond, but Lamont is okay with that. As much as he enjoys their fistfights, tonight really isn’t the night for that.  
  
He’s still not sure what kind of night it is, but he knows it’s not one of violence, at least.  
  
Lamont claims the chair behind Worth’s cluttered desk without asking, continuing a slow rub of the towel across his head. There’s little warmth in the action, but at least it’s helping to scrub out the moisture. Worth makes another noise of irritation, but does nothing beyond that; it seems he doesn’t want to fight, either.  
  
It’s probably the rain, making them both so lethargic and listless. Lamont finishes with the towel on his head, setting it down to unbutton his sopping shirt with cold fingers. Worth watches, like a hawk or some kind of hungry hyaena. A prickle of something uncomfortably nostalgic spreads across the nape of Lamont’s neck, but he ignores it. He tosses his shirt to slap into a wet pile on the floor, turning to examine the shirt Worth has provided.   
  
No tags, but that’s expected, with how Worth likes ripping and tearing things. The shirt seems familiar regardless, the lingering stains of blood on lapel and cuffs tugging something in him, and suddenly he remembers – it was the shirt Worth wore the night Lamont had stupidly decided to confide in him about yet another girlfriend who’d left him. When they’d dissolved into a mess of punches and blood like they often did, but when Worth had finally put words to the reason why: he was an outlet. The fights were an outlet for them both.  
  
Lamont finds himself glancing back up at Worth. The poor excuse for a doctor has stopped staring at Lamont, his attention to the small window that always makes Lamont feel like he’s in a prison cell. The rain continues a patter to rival the sudden quickness of his pulse, the dank grey outside a parallel to the clenching of his veins. He knows why he’s here, he’s always known, but he still finds himself trying to deny it.  
  
He slips the shirt on after a moment, and his willpower fails him; he surreptitiously covers his mouth with the sleeve, inhales – it smells like dust and mothballs. He feels silly for even thinking it would smell like the man still turned away from him. Of course Luce wouldn’t wear those shirts anymore. He’s gone on to furrier and shabbier things.  
  
  
His pants are next to the pile, after a moment of hesitation. He’s not sure which he’d rather endure: Luce’s vulgar comments about his underwear and hairy legs, or everything below his torso getting frostbite. Frostbite would almost be preferable, but he’s not in the mood for physical discomfort. He just wants to find somewhere warm and dry and safe to hunker down and sleep off the rest of the storm.   
  
Of course it’s right as his slacks are off that Worth decides to turn back around. His mouth widens in a sick grin, and Lamont is grossly aware of the fact the water has soaked all the way through to his boxer briefs, their white doing little to hide the mess of black hair curling up across his crotch.  
  
“Looks like ya need a bikini wax,” Worth snorts wickedly, and it’s all Lamont can do not to just die right there, right now.  
  
“Don’t be hating just because your hair’s almost invisible, Blondie,” he retorts back. Damn it, he can feel his face heating up. He has to be bright red, especially considering the leer Worth is giving him.  
  
“Must be cold, eh?”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Yer knickers. Soakin’ wet, must be cold?”  
  
“Oh, I guess.” He’s uncomfortably hot everywhere now, and he wishes Worth would just leave him alone for once in his life.  
  
“Y’should take ‘em off.”  
  
He had to have heard him wrong. “What?”   
  
Worth repeats himself, tone a trickle of amusement.  
  
He feels like a broken record, but he asks again, “What?”  
  
“Take off yer fuckin’ knickers ‘r I’ll take ‘em off ya myself.”  
  
Lamont can’t comprehend why Worth would have any reason to get irritated at him, but then the other man is stalking forward like his threat was more than just a threat and there’s no way Lamont is letting him touch him there, so he slips them off and covers himself immediately with the towel.  
  
Worth backs off, reaching into his oversized pocket for a cigarette and his cheap lighter. His body language is abruptly nonchalant again as he lights it, sucking in a few deep drags before murmuring, “Good, now y’wont catch sick’n die. Fuckin’ cold gets everywhere if ya don’t watch it.”  
  
Is that genuine concern he’s hearing? Lamont can’t believe his ears.   
  
“You actually care about me, don’t you?”  
  
“Care about you? Pfah, I just don’t wanna do all th’dirty work myself, asshole.”  
  
But Lamont can tell, with the way Luce now won’t look at him, the way his hand is shaking the tiniest of shakes as he holds his cigarette away from an exhale of smoke.   
  
“You DO care about me,” he realizes aloud with a kind of sick glee.   
  
And then Worth is there again, right in front of him, leaning onto the desk on hands splayed and firm. “Listen,” he hisses through grit teeth, cigarette clenched and precipitating ash, “I don’t care about anythin’ you do. Got it?”  
  
Lamont can’t tell you how it happens, but in the next moment he stretches himself forward, filling that tiny little gap between them. The cigarette drops, smouldering dangerously on the wood of the desk, but neither of them seem to care as the closed-lip kiss mutates rapidly into a reckless, unchoreographed dance of tongues and panting. It’s long overdue, with the way they’d tiptoed around and ignored the awkward advances both of them had made over the years.  
  
It’s odd, Lamont finds himself thinking, that he could be so suave and graceful and know just what to do and say when it comes to a woman, but with Luce – nothing he knows about relationships is ever right. He feels like a kid again the way his heart claws into his throat when Luce’s hand reaches up and tugs on his hair, taking control, dominating, and Lamont finds he doesn’t care.   
  
He’d always had the subconscious, hidden thought that he’d somehow find a way to finally gain control of the other man, but he knows that’s a fantasy, but it doesn’t really matter, because the thought of Luce over him, sharp angles and sharper grins, pulls a low groan out of him that doesn’t go unnoticed.   
  
The kiss is finally broken, air pregnant immediately with the sounds of labored panting and the low, wet chuckling of Luce. Somehow in the course of events he’d moved closer; he’s sitting on the edge of the desk, legs to either side of Lamont in a lazy, teasing straddle.   
  
Lamont groans again. He can’t help it. Now that he’s admitted to himself what he wants, he’s finding it hard to wait, to endure the torturously slow progression that Luce obviously wants to inflict on him. “Luce.” His voice is a soft raw whisper. “Luce, come on.”  
  
“Wot’s th’magic word?”  
  
Lamont has always prided himself in his self control and dignity, but right now, that’s straight out the window, drowning with the sewer rats outside. He knows how pathetic he must look as he arches himself forward, eyebrows furrowed in an echo of his plaintive word. “Please.”  
  
  
A tangle of limbs, gasps, and grinding are what they become now, towel discarded, shirts ripped off so fast their buttons are threatened to pop, pants down and flush, throbbing members towering toward the sky. Luce wastes no time in straddling Lamont fully, hands grasping his shoulder blades like the reigns of a horse as he presses himself down on Lamont’s length.  
  
There’s a tangible moment of tense silence as Luce slips further down until he’s skin flush with skin. Their mouths open in identical wordless yells, and the second hangs in the air, a sudden question mark needing to know: what the fuck are we doing?  
  
Neither answer the question or even acknowledge it. The pace starts hard and fast, gasps and groans ripping from their throats in such a finality that Lamont can feel a change in them. His hands grasp for purchase on bony meatless hips and his lips press everywhere he can reach. Luce isn’t close enough, no matter how deeply he pushes into him, no matter how firm their chests collide together. It’s a mess of pleasure and frantic need, roiling over them like the storm cloud outside, flooding the room with disjointed gasping.  
  
Luce’s nails are digging into his back, and he can feel when they finally break the skin. The flush of pain lightning bolts down his back, and it’s an unconscious decision the way he arches the furthest he’s ever arched, a low, keening wail pouring from him. His scrabbling hands grasp Luce tighter, tighter until the skin is raw and red and Luce is wailing too.   
  
He feels teeth on his shoulder now, which he shies away from – no, this wasn’t supposed to be violent – but he doesn’t stop, and Lamont finds himself biting back, growling like an animal, and the noises from Luce are ones he’d never expect in a million years. The pace quickens, and he tightens his teeth, and Luce screams a broken hallelujah as he spills his seed all over their stomachs.   
  
The ring of muscles contract hard around Lamont and he’s gone, his own sounds of perfect and miserable pleasure harmonizing. He’s never come this hard before in his life.   
  
Neither of them can move, but the afterglow sustains them in their uncomfortable spot, their heaving chests slowly finding a steady rhythm of breathing, minds still reeling and trying to find an anchor to hold onto. They make eye contact, and Lamont swears there’s a burst of something physical between them. He leans forward, places a sloppy kiss on Luce’s pouting, panting mouth. It says what words can’t: I want you, I need you, I love you.  
  
Luce pulls out of the kiss, eyes glassy but focused very intently upon Lamont. He seems confused, or perhaps irritated, but Lamont kisses him again, and if he had any complaints, he doesn’t act on them, because he’s kissing back, sloppy, slow, passionate. Lamont’s hands roam his back gently, trembling with the crash of emotions he’s been ignoring for so many years.  
  
But like any great and beautiful thing, it has to end, and Luce pulls away, pulling off, stumbling toward his discarded clothing for another cigarette. Lamont knows he’s pathetic with the way he immediately yearns for the other man against him again, and he tries his hardest not to show it, but the minute Worth looks back in his direction, he knows. He knows he must look like a kicked puppy, because why else would Luce look at him that way?  
  
Worth’s face stretches into a wide grin, and he nods toward the back room. “Why doncha head toward bed?” He scratches himself, vulgarly, lighting the cigarette with his other hand. “I’ll be right there.”  
  
It’s only until after Lamont is snuggled down under the moth-eaten comforters and nodding off that he realizes: he’s never been more content or pleased in his life than now.  
  
If there’s ever another restless day off, he knows just how to fix it.


End file.
